Stinging slices, welling redness, smells like ozone.

Their knife is in their hand, means they let go, means he can roll away and scramble to his feet ad maybe they've let go--but even if they have, the cloth's torn and tangled around his legs, he can't stand.

He twitches and lashes out with claws, struggling to get out of this stupid trap, and a bristle of a wave of electricity rushes through his fur--a Thunder Wave, reflexive, to inflict paralysis so he can have a chance to get escape the smothering sensation.